Gods of Jade and Shadow

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “With your heart’s greatest desire,” he said simply.

  Ah, the ocean lit by the moon, night swimming in its depths; the automobile she wished to drive, curious about that beast of metal that roared upon the roads; the pretty dress reaching her thighs, made for dancing at clubs where they played all the music they mentioned in the papers, and which she’d never heard.

  But when she looked at him to say may I have all that? the joy she felt, like a child who opens her Epiphany presents, was scattered.

  It was nothing he did or nothing he said, since he was doing and saying nothing, just sitting at her side.

  There was silence, a quiet that stretched out forever and was no more than a few minutes long. An emptiness that made Casiopea rub her arms, which filled the heart he’d spoken about. She waited for him to talk because she had no words and did not want to find them now lest she say the wrong thing, but he was prone to silences. She realized he would feel no need to talk.

  So, yes, perhaps she was bitter, and beneath her bluster she was scared, and in turn perhaps he kept secrets, which only made it worse.

  She sighed, raised her head, admired his profile for a second. She spoke, her voice as light as she could make it.

  “Do you think they’ll have opened the dining car yet?” she asked.

  “We can find out,” he said and they rose.

  He brushed a few wrinkles from his suit, and she fixed her hair. He offered her his arm.

  The dining car was empty but the tables were all set, with spotless white linens and gleaming glasses. Casiopea rested her chin against her hand and looked out the window, at the stars, which were fading. She longed. Not for one specific thing but for everything; she had longed for a long time. He’d made this longing worse: it followed her quietly, this awkward feeling under her skin.

  “What do you dream about?” he asked.

  “Sorry?” she replied, turning her head away from the window.

  “When you dream, what do you dream about?”

  “Oh. I don’t know. Lots of different things, I suppose,” Casiopea said with a shrug, tracing the rim of a glass with a hand.

  “Do you dream about the things you see on the streets during the daytime and the people you know?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She wondered what he was going on about. He looked rather serious, and he rubbed his chin. She noticed the trace of stubble on his cheeks. Had he needed to shave before? He’d seemed very pristine to her, a statue in his perfection.

  “I think I dreamed tonight. It’s difficult for me to understand it since I am unused to the activity.”

  “My father had a book and it claimed that dreams can have secret messages. If you dream you are flying it means one thing and if you dream your teeth are falling out it means another. I do hate it when my teeth fall out in dreams,” she said.

  “I dreamed about you,” he said, the voice deliberate, cool.

  Casiopea coughed so loudly she thought the entire train had heard her, every single person in every berth and the conductor to boot. And then she blushed so brightly she seriously considered slipping under the table. She grabbed her napkin, tossed it on her lap, and fidgeted with it instead, unwilling to look at him.

  “What is the matter?” Hun-Kamé said. “You are very strange sometimes.”

  “Nothing is the matter with me. You dream about me and nothing is the matter,” she said, lifting her head and almost shouting at him. Couldn’t he see how mortified she was?

  Now he looked irritated, as if she’d been mean to him. But she was not trying to be mean; it wasn’t the sort of thing she’d expected to hear.

  “I shouldn’t have dreamed, not about you or teeth or whatever men dream. I feel like I’m standing on quicksand and I’m sinking fast. I’m forgetting who I am,” he admitted.

  He looked utterly lost. She patted his hand, which rested against the mahogany table, in sympathy, not knowing what else to do.

  “You’ll be yourself again soon,” she promised.

  He looked down at her fingers resting on top of his. He seemed surprised, and she felt abashed, thinking she’d done something wrong. But when she attempted to pull away her hand, he gave it a squeeze and he nodded.

  “I dreamed you walked the Black Road of Xibalba,” he said. “I did not like this. It is a dangerous path. And I was glad when you woke me. It is not that I think you a coward, Lady Tun, it is that I wish you no harm.”

  He slid his hand away, and she stared at the empty plate before her. “I suppose there’s nothing to do but hope for the best.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Hun-Kamé said thoughtfully, grabbing his napkin and unfolding it. A server had walked by and filled their glasses with water. Casiopea guessed they would begin the breakfast service soon.

  “Have I told you,” he said suddenly, “how beautiful are the mountains in the east of my kingdom? They are made of different layers, first a layer of sturdy jadeite, then a layer of vibrant malachite, and finally a layer of pale pink coral. Even your stars would envy their beauty.”

  It was a strange comment. Was he attempting to distract her? A light danced in his dour eye. It was muted. The light of a half moon instead of the sun, but it made her lean forward, quick and eager.

  “You say that because you have not seen them streaking the sky,” she replied.

  “Are they made of malachite and coral?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then they do not compare.”

  She smiled at Hun-Kamé. He smiled at her too. What was this? A simple act of mimicry? No. The smile, like his laughter, like the errant dream, came from his heart. Did he realize it? No. Does everyone who has been young and foolish realize the extent and depth of their emotions? Of course not.

  What about Casiopea? Surely the sonnets, the turns of phrases in poems, had schooled her somewhat. But then, like him, she had lived vicariously, had seen the world from a distance. The yearning inside her was impossible, like when as a child she’d wished to pluck a shooting star from the sky; it was wildly familiar and new at the same time. And she didn’t want it; she could recognize a fool’s errand even if she could not name it.

  The train pressed forward and the glasses tinkled and he looked at her as if he’d not truly seen her before. And maybe, he had not.

  The heat in El Paso was different from the heat in Yucatán. It was a dry, crackling heat, slipping in under the collar of Casiopea’s dress, threatening to bake her like a loaf of bread. Men and women fanned themselves with their hats, with newspapers, as they made their way through customs. It was a long wait. Prohibition had turned many a law-abiding citizen into a smuggler of spirits. A case of whiskey bought for thirty-six dollars in Piedras Negras or another northern town could fetch thrice that price in San Antonio. And there was always a fellow willing to attempt to introduce many a weird artifact into the United States, especially exotic pets—a man was caught attempting to carry a Chihuahua in his luggage, while another drugged six parrots to keep them quiet during the crossing. More than a dozen passenger trains stopped daily in El Paso, and that meant customs agents.

  Casiopea watched the people ahead of them, standing on her tiptoes, trying to measure the length of the line. She was nervous. She loathed the prospect of being asked questions in a language she did not understand, although, she imagined, it would not be too difficult to fetch someone who knew Spanish, if the necessity arose. Many of the people in the city hailed from Mexico. Some had come because they had been pushed by the revolution, others had been there since the time when the territory was still part of Spain, and others were recent additions: priests and nuns escaping the government’s persecution as well as Cristeros intent on one day becoming martyrs.

  The line moved forward and it was their turn. When the agent spoke, she discovered she knew what he was saying; more than that, she could
answer him. The words came to her as easily as if she’d been speaking English for ages.

  The agent nodded at them and let them through. Outside, the sun blaring at them, Casiopea blinked and turned toward Hun-Kamé.

  “I understood what he said,” she told Hun-Kamé. “How is that possible?”

  “Death speaks all languages,” he replied.

  “But I am not death.”

  “You wear me like a jewel upon your finger, Casiopea,” he said and offered her his arm with a practiced aloofness. She took it, her hand careful as she touched his sleeve.

  They made their way to the Plaza San Jacinto. The locals called it the Alligator Plaza for the critters that swam in a fenced pond there. All streetcar lines went down this square; it served as the town’s beating heart, and the hotels clustered around it.

  There were several places where a visitor could lodge in comfort these days. El Paso had ballooned in the past decade, transforming from a rudimentary collection of businesses and scattered homes to a full-blown city. The Sheldon, a four-story redbrick building that faced the plaza, was one of the best-known hotels in the American Southwest. During the Mexican Revolution, both journalists covering the happenings and revolutionaries involved in the fray lodged there. And the year before the Hotel Orndorff, also located by the plaza, had opened its doors, astonishing everyone with its extravagant price tag. This was the place Hun-Kamé picked for the duration of their stay. They booked adjacent, though not interconnected, rooms, as had been the case in Mexico City, and the front desk employee handed them their keys.

  As soon as Casiopea reached her room, she proceeded to take a shower. This was her favorite amenity at the hotels: the nice bathrooms and the hot shower. She changed into a clean dress, realizing she must send her other clothes to be washed. Then she knocked on Hun-Kamé’s door.

  A few days before she would not have dared such a thing, but now she simply walked in and sat at the edge of his bed, comfortable in their familiarity.

  “What now?” she asked. “Do we head out?”

  “Yes. First I need to phone Loray,” he replied.

  “Is that about the wire he needs to send you?”

  “And more.”

  Hun-Kamé lifted the heavy phone receiver and asked for the operator. He had also changed, switching the gray traveling suit for a navy jacket and trousers. He looked dapper. She watched him as he stood by the window, and she smiled. But the smile slid off her face as she wondered if she should be so familiar with him. She pivoted between conflicting desires, notions she could not even articulate.

  Hun-Kamé placed the receiver down and turned to her, sliding his hands into his pockets.

  “He is wiring me money; it should arrive come morning,” he said.

  “You don’t seem too pleased,” she replied.

  “I was hoping he’d know where I can find the Uay Chivo.”

  “And he doesn’t.”

  “No, but he had a suggestion.”

  She recalled Loray’s suggestion that she cut off her hand. Somehow she didn’t think whatever he’d told Hun-Kamé was very nice. Odds were it involved her too.

  “I don’t have any more hair you can cut, if you mean to use that to map your way,” Casiopea replied, touching the short bangs across her forehead. When she looked in the mirror she did not quite recognize herself, the hair hitting her cheekbones.

  “I could not summon ghosts right this instant even if I tried,” he replied.

  “But the illusions, you make those. And the trick with the languages,” she protested.

  “I told you. I’m far from home and I am not growing stronger. A little more and even that power may be beyond me, who knows.”

  He said this, but to her he looked no different than the day before. He stood tall and straight and strong, no weakness in his form. She, on the other hand, could feel a headache coming. Casiopea dragged a hand across her forehead. She’d slept on the train and still felt tired. She was an energetic girl, used to getting up with the dawn and working hard, and yet that day she was as frail as a lady who had never lifted a finger in her life.

  “Do you have any ideas? Do you even know what the Uay Chivo looks like?”

  “Like a sorcerer, like a goat,” he replied staidly.

  Casiopea did not think there was a half man, half goat with burning eyes casually walking around the streets of El Paso; the creature of legend from the southern peninsula’s jungles waiting to catch a tram.

  “What aren’t you saying?” she asked, eyeing Hun-Kamé carefully; between his smooth, concise words lay a thorn.

  “There is a witch,” he said. “She will know about the Uay Chivo.”

  “What is the catch?”

  She’d learned by now there was one and there was no point in mincing words, pretending she didn’t expect it. Best to pluck the truth out.

  “She’ll want to be paid. And she won’t take a coin,” he told her.

  Casiopea pressed her lips together, looking down at the floor.

  “It’s blood,” he said.

  “Of course it is,” she said, her hands clutching the covers. “I can imagine it’s not your blood.”

  “No.”

  “Then there’s no choice, is there? I have to do it, as usual. You don’t do anything. Well, fine, here, have the blood,” she said, rising and offering him her wrists. “Have it,” she continued, lifting her wrists. “What? I feel like I should sleep for three days straight, but no matter. What’s a bit of blood at this point.”

  He said nothing, and she slapped his chest, furious at his dour expression. At this he did react, by catching her wrists, although he did not seem upset. He held her hands.

  “I know I ask many things of—”

  “You ask everything!”

  “You will be repaid,” he said, touching the silver bracelet, as if reminding her of his generosity, the possible avenues of wealth offered to her.

  Casiopea rolled her eyes. “My heart’s desire. And what if I can’t—”

  She clamped her mouth shut. What if she couldn’t have what she wanted. She wasn’t even sure what she’d ask him for if she could. Anyway, she needed him to remove the stupid bone shard. And when had there been a god who was not demanding? Tribute was to be expected, and she wouldn’t have him saying she’d been a coward.

  Casiopea pulled her hands away.

  “We should find the witch, then,” she said.

  “If you want to, you could rest,” he offered, gracious.

  “No. Might as well get going,” she said, wishing to get everything over with.

  Hun-Kamé shrugged, which salted her wounds. Cross as she was, she failed to notice that he had not rebuked her for her anger, that he had not thought to remind her of his rank and importance and her comparative insignificance as he surely would have done a few days before.

  The cool, protective bubble of the hotel broke as soon as they stepped out of the building. They took a trolley and stepped down after a few stops, reaching a flower shop with the name “Candida” written by its entrance in cursive letters. When they walked in a silver bell jingled, announcing their arrival. It was a narrow, dark little business perfumed with a wild mix of scents: lilies, peonies, and dewy fresh jasmine.

  A woman sat behind a counter, her gray hair pulled back in a bun. She was a small, wrinkled lady, wearing a pink apron with her name—Candida Cordero—in the same script as the store’s front. Her glasses were thick. She was working on a piece of embroidery.

  The fairy tale books of Casiopea’s childhood, replete with European fancies, contained old women with magic powers, but in those books they were hunched and wore capes. The folktales of her town, on the other hand, provided a different picture of warlocks and witches. There was a town in the north of Yucatán where they said all the inhabitants were witches, creatures who shed
their skin to become animals, prancing around the cemetery or the roads at night. These people were young and old, men and women. Huay Pek, the dog witch, Huay Mis, the cat witch. But neither version of the witch looked like the woman in front of her. She was far too mundane, too sweet in her pink apron, stitching flowers.

  “Seeking roses for your sweetheart?” the woman asked, without looking at them. “Red for passion and yellow for friendship, but lavender is for love at first sight. The hue you pick makes all the difference.”

  “We don’t need flowers,” Hun-Kamé said.

  “Nonsense. Everyone can use the charm of a flower. Besides, why else would you be here? It’s a flower shop.”

  “A friend recommended your shop.”

  “But is he a good friend?”

  “It was the Marquess of Arrows.”

  The woman nodded, reaching for her scissors and cutting a thread. She stopped to admire her handiwork for a moment, then turned the embroidery hoop in their direction so that they might see the roses she had been working on.

  “Well. That’s a name you don’t hear around these parts very often,” the woman said, setting down her embroidery. “What’s that crazy Frenchman up to these days, hmm?”

  “He sends his regards, from the south.”

  “Decked in green, with a pack of cards nearby.”

  “Likely.”

  “Ha. You would not believe the trouble he can get himself into when he has the chance. Marquess. Demon.”

  Candida adjusted her glasses, pushing them back by the corner of their frame, and looked at them for a good, long minute.

  “I can’t quite tell your hue, young man. But…not that young, are you? You, dear boy, are decked in black. Boy and not-boy. What strange darkness do you carry?”

  “The hint of the grave, of Xibalba.”

  “Ah, sympathy flowers,” the woman said, smiling a gap-toothed smile and clasping her hands together. “But then my shop is too modest to accommodate you, for I think you are a great lord.”

  Ordinarily, Hun-Kamé looked like a very polished man, but when she said “lord,” he stood even straighter, more rigid, and Casiopea could not only picture his royal diadem—onyx and jade, no doubt—she thought she might touch it. She wondered if she would ever see him in his throne room, if he would stand there the way she pictured it, if his image would be reflected on the walls of the chamber, which would also be of onyx. Of course she couldn’t, she wouldn’t; Xibalba was his realm, and as soon as he returned to it she’d never hear of him again. And what would she do? Left in a border town like this, staring at the sky.